


think before making a wish (for only fools say their wishes aloud)

by Elisye



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Gen, rolls away in shame from those who know about fae stuff better than me right now, yeah i dont remember shit about fairy stuff but i wrote this anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:52:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15559134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: Listen carefully.The earth is singing. The sky is dreaming. The waters of the world begin and end an eternal journey, gathering wisdom and stories to pass upon the next. This is the true face of reality, unmarred by the happenings of what came after the next. Now, no one knows, no one remembers, what it means to reach out and feel the universe playing its own symphony, to cradle the voice shaping the far-beyond within oneself—Listen closely, and do not forget - there will always be vestiges of what once was, in some form..Shirogane meets a boy who stole her name.





	think before making a wish (for only fools say their wishes aloud)

**Author's Note:**

> buries my hands into my face
> 
> what the FUCK am i DOING this is so ooc im sorry rip

 

One wish, one curse - one piece of the sun and one piece of the moon.

Greed is all-encompassing, but never satisfied.

Such is the way of humans. Filthy beings growing beyond their lowly origins, forgetting the breath of the seas and the roots of the soil through which their forms were created, nurtured from. As humanity is now, they have forgotten how to hear the words whispered into the wind, the scripture of the constellations, the fathomless knowledge of reality and the fathomable reaches of the unknown. Reaching for the material, shedding blood and desire as they built their iron playgrounds, hoping to become kings when they will never - truly - be the rulers of all—

It goes without saying that you loathe humans quite a bit. But no one would really know that, not unless they unhinge your jaws and force you to speak the truth from the deepest reaches of your soul. And not just anyone can force you to go so far without using your name—

Purple eyes shine bright. A grin stretching wide, similar to that of humans when frolicking into foolishness and danger.

Except this one - this one _knows._

"What should I call you? Shirogane-san? Tsumugi-chan? Oh, should I just call you by your real name?"

Pearly enamel bared. Seated in front of you is a human - or at least, to no one who matters, he looks human. Those purple eyes? Contacts. This gravity-defying hair? Hair gel and an amusing lot of experimentation with hair dyes. The way he dances around words and names and anything remotely close to requests and favors? Just him being an annoying brat, surely.

Surely. You'd like to think that, say that, but it's too late and your tongue is - for the moment - not yours.

The boy chuckles at your bowed head, finding your silence charming. Your fingers scrape along your knees as some sort of distraction, ten nails trying to cut through the fine stockings, forgetting that in your attempts to blend into the overwhelmingly human world, you had to file them down into docile crescents. You can't help the irritated huff that leaves you, strangled with frustration and bitterness for what you once were and what you have since lost.

(The words will never be heard or uttered even to yourself - but it still froths in your soul, _I miss it, I miss it, I miss it—_ )

"Well," the not-boy starts again, playing with the straw in his bubble tea with bored eyes. "I might have your name and all, but we  _are_ strangers, technically. First time you're meeting me, first time I'm meeting you... though it's not the first time I've heard of you, of course."

His eyes sparkle for a moment. It's not because of the overhead lights in this cafe. "So! I guess, for politeness sake, I'll call you Shirogane-chan. A nice mix of formal and informal, don't you say?"

You lift your eyes away from your cold london fog, feeling your lips curl into an unrestrained frown of distaste. Anger and hopelessness reach out from behind the frown, but you do your best to shove them back down, away from the surface. The child is already playing with you - you can't give him any more to laugh at, not when you still want to cling to yourself and your pride. So after a fair moment of staring (glaring) at him, you respond, flatly, "I don't care. Just say how you're going to toy with me, if you plan on being merciful even once."

For a response, he raises an eyebrow. The cheer has bled away for something very blank, like a canvas in the middle of repainting itself.

Carefully, carefully, he leans forward, elbows resting on the table, chin resting on his layered hands. You don't see any spark of mischief - but he still isn't human. No, no, he's behaving more like - you, now. To a human, he is cold, and to your kind, he is being sincere, so very sincere. Around him, the color of the air changes accordingly, perfectly reflective of the moment.

Were your name not being held by him, you would be slightly impressed by his fine skill at weaving the veil. How long has it been since you've met one of your own, truly?

"...Life isn't such a trivial thing to me, Shirogane-chan." The not-boy says in a faint monotone. The din of the cafe dies away, this corner of the world delicately cut away from reality. Eventually, from the corner of your eye, you see that the cafe has been emptied of people, of sound and of breath and of the living - leaving behind steaming cups and half-eaten muffins, silent streets and the dull murmur of sheer non-existence. "I respect any existence that lives without trampling on others, and similarly, I follow the same dogma. If I could, I would offer protection to those that deserve my word - but, if you don't recognize me, then throwing around my name is obviously pretty worthless, isn't it?"

He doesn't grin this time, simply smiling. Only blind instinct says that it is his way of being guarded. Of being cautious - because however, hah, _kind_ he supposedly wants to be, there isn't really any generosity to be found among the fae. Not of the human sort, at any rate. Under the laws, an equilibrium is a necessity, under oath or otherwise. But what counts for an equal amount of give or take? And, if the right words have - or haven't - been said, what is stopping one from exploiting the undefined weights of the scale, long after the matter has become binding and permanent? He has your name, and he can do literally anything he wants with it, with you - but until he uproots your soul and crushes your will into silence, you have a mind that can think, that can plan and manipulate and make use of whatever vulnerabilities there are in a person.

And, of course, while you still have free will, you're wholly and solely interested in ripping your name back into your hands, to erase it from his memory - to erase  _him_ from the universe's memory. It's only appropriate, for taking your name and putting it under his whimsy thumb.

Righteous retribution is what your kind will always be renown for. The not-boy knows that as well.

"—so, considering that, I can't make any promises about protecting you or helping you where it really matters. But that doesn't mean I intend to throw you out to the hunting dogs." The smile opens wide, back into a grin. There is maybe one too many teeth in it this time around. "Unless you want me to? I know none of us take to forced servitude very well now."

You don't rein in your disdain in the least. If only your stares could burn the sun itself. "You don't intend to shelter me, but you don't intend to make use of me either? Just what are you playing at here?"

He hums a contemplative sound, leaning back, his arms folding behind his head. "It's not a very fun game if I spill all the beans, you know."

"So you do intend to toy with me to some extent."

"I wouldn't call it 'toying' with you. I'd say it's something closer to humans and their teasing."

Despite a very vocal part of your brain saying that the definitions aren't any different, you resist the urge to argue further - you had a strange, slinking feeling that you would spend the next fifteen minutes or so just going around circles if you kept pressing things like this. But it's an uncomfortable experience to just—give up. To eventually, essentially, surrender your denial away for grudging acceptance, to the fact that your name is not yours alone and that this mysterious character, who you've never laid eyes upon ever before this point, can be the decider of your fate.

(You've lived so long - and you've lost something so important to, to this _child?_ )

You could grind your teeth to dust from how awful this situation is, but don't, as noise and life suddenly swarms over your ears. Glancing around, you find the cafe busy with the hum of baristas at work and salarymen grabbing a quick breakfast. Students walk past the wide windows while cars honk through morning traffic. Your little corner of the world has been forcefully restitched back to the rest of the universe, leaving you with an unpleasant feeling of being just a little off your feet - and a very empty chair opposite to you.

Along with a pending bill listing, besides the london fog that you ordered, a blueberry muffin and a large-sized bubble tea that you definitely didn't order.

You're tempted to scrunch up the bill and throw it into the nearest trash bin, but you still have to pay for your drink. That  _brat_.

Pinching the bridge of your nose under your glasses for a few moments, you take one deep breath in, one deep breath out, before skimming the bill again. At the bottom, unnoticed at first besides the totaled payment, is a little message scrawled in a script that only your eyes can read:  _Oh, and, you can call me Ouma Kokichi. First or last name is fine, but I'm sure you have manners, riiiight?_

"Unfortunately, yes, Ouma-san," comes the spiteful answer, before a strange hum echoes in your ears, and the script vanishes from the bill.

 


End file.
